


The Little Things

by azriona



Series: Hearts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after John wakes from his coma, he and Percy talk about life, death, and bonding.  You know, the little things.  A one-shot in the Heart ‘Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> One More Miracle was far trickier to write than I anticipated. I ended up scrapping 42 pages of an early draft because I realized what I was doing wrong. The one-shot that follows is probably the only bit you’ll ever get to see from those pages, because (a) I like it and (b) it doesn’t have a good spot in OMM anymore. Also, I don’t use Percy much in the main stories, but I really like him, and so I hate to completely lose anything with him in it.
> 
> This scene takes place approximately one week after John has woken up at the end of The Heart in Him.

Morning came quickly. Too quickly; it brought with it the telephone ringing, and Sherlock staring angrily at his mobile. 

“Lestrade wants me to come in,” he said, and John looked up sharply from the newspaper he’d been trying to read. His head hurt and his eyes couldn’t focus, and Emily kept jostling the table as she marched her soldiers in circles around her plate. 

“Never thought I’d hear you sound upset about it,” said John, and Sherlock glanced up at him, startled, as the unspoken _Never thought I’d hear you say that again_ went unsaid. 

“He wants a statement about my non-death, prior to the press release about my non-resurrection,” said Sherlock, and he pocketed the mobile. “Paperwork. Details. Nonsense.” 

The mobile trilled again. Sherlock studiously ignored it, and went back to organizing and labeling the new set of glass vials, purchased the day before. John frowned. 

“Going to ignore him all day?” 

“If necessary.” 

A new ring joined the fray: the Imperial Death March. Sherlock ignored it, and Emily looked up with a bright smile. 

“Uncle Mycoff!” she said, and Sherlock’s head snapped up as John answered his phone. The phone was heavy in his hand, and he had some trouble directing his fingers to hit the correct button, but at last he connected. 

“Mycroft,” he said, and tried to squash the feeling of inadequacy for being unable to answer the phone without nearly losing his temper. 

“John,” said Mycroft smoothly. “I would like to talk to my brother, please.” 

“Ring him yourself,” said John, and hung up. He slammed the mobile on the table, and took a deep breath. 

“Daddy?” asked Emily, hesitating, and John smiled at her. 

“Sorry, Em. Just your uncle being Mycroft.” 

Emily nodded solemnly, and kept marching her soldiers. She eyed her fathers warily, and stayed low in her seat. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mycroft looking for me, I take it.” 

“I don’t want to talk to him,” said John, and thought his voice sounded somewhat thick, considering he was only angry and not close to crying. Strange, it felt very nearly the same. 

“Do you…” Sherlock swallowed. “Do you want to talk to me?” 

“What about?” John looked over his paper at Sherlock, who was staring back. 

Sherlock’s mobile rang again, and at the same time, John’s began to vibrate a path to the edge of the table. 

“Lestrade,” said John, looking at his mobile. 

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock bitterly, looking at his. He answered it. “Brother. Dear. You’re interrupting breakfast.” 

John couldn’t hear what Mycroft said, but he kept half an eye on Sherlock’s face, which grew stonier by the moment. 

“Fine,” said Sherlock sharply, and he disconnected the call. “Emily, if you’re done with breakfast, you can leave the table.” 

“She’s not done,” said John testily. “Not until she eats two soldiers and a bite of egg.” 

Emily’s eyes whipped back and forth between her fathers. One of the soldiers disappeared under the table, and John, from his chair, could see her quietly munching on it, out of Sherlock’s sight. 

“Mycroft needs my presence for some ridiculous legal dispute about my resurrection,” said Sherlock. 

John nodded, briefly. Any other time, he might have made a quip about Mycroft not being all powerful; just now, he liked the idea that the man was being taken down a peg. “Well, today would be a good day to do it – Percy is coming over with Trevor.” 

Sherlock’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “Who are they?” 

John raised an eyebrow, and nudged a soldier closer to the edge of the table, where Emily’s hand was groping for it. “I met Percy in the omega parenting group. Trevor’s his son, couple months older than Emily. Percy’s rung a couple of times, I think you even ran into him in hospital. Ginger, both of them, Trevor’s got more energy than a pack of hyenas.” 

“ _Wild_ hyenath,” corrected Emily from under the table, the lisp slipping out. 

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “The one who doesn’t like me.” 

“He doesn’t know you.” 

“Strange how people persist in thinking that _knowing_ me would help,” said Sherlock dryly. “In that case.” 

Sherlock pushed away from the table, and went to get his coat. 

“Sherlock,” said John, and Sherlock paused at the door, turning to look at John. Something in his face looked expectant, even hopeful, John thought. “The glass vials? You need to put them where Emily can’t play with them or break them.” 

The look of disappointment on Sherlock’s face was fleeting. He glanced at Emily, still under the table, and nodded. He cleared away the vials without a word, and went to put them away in the bedroom– John hoped it was somewhere high. 

Sherlock was tying the scarf around his neck when Emily stood by the door to watch. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, eyes wide and curious. 

“Out,” Sherlock told her. “To see your uncle Mycroft.” 

Emily looked concerned. “Are you coming home?” 

The world went utterly still, and John held his breath. 

Sherlock bent down until he was on his knees before the little girl. He brushed an errant dark curl from her face, and tucked it behind her ear. “Emily Holmes Watson,” he said softly. “I will _always_ come home.” 

* 

Percy arrived with beer and Trevor. Mrs Hudson let them in and Trevor climbed the stairs twice as quickly as his dad. 

“ _Emileeeeeeeee_ ,” he howled as he climbed, and Emily ran to meet him. 

“Tevor!” she shouted back, and when he reached the top of the stairs, Percy scooped up his son and carried him into the flat, while Emily trailed after. He dropped Trevor on the sofa, where the little boy with the tight red curls, dark skin, and freckles curled up, giggling, and knelt in front of them, his finger to his lips. 

“Shhhhh,” said Percy, and the two toddlers copied him, giggling softly with each other. “Right. In _this box_ —” Percy held up a box and gave it a shake. “There is a _surprise_.” 

“It’s a _train_ ,” Trevor whispered to Emily, whose eyes popped wide with appreciation. Trevor wriggled with unspent excitement; his arms shook and his body quivered, as if he couldn’t possibly hold still – and John sometimes wondered how the boy managed to not explode with pent-up enthusiasm. He was a good match for Emily, who had energy, but tended to hesitate before leaping in. 

“Thank you, Trevor,” said Percy. “Remind me to go over the theory of _surprise_ with you.” 

“Okay.” 

Percy held the box aloft. “Kitchen. Play. I don’t want to hear a thing unless one of you is bleeding.” 

He handed the children the box, and they scampered into the kitchen. Immediately the flat was filled with the clacks and snaps of tracks being assembled. 

John chuckled. He could hear Emily and Trevor chatting and squabbling with each other, half in English and half in toddler gibberish. It sounded familiar and comfortable, and he could tell, without even looking, that the two of them were arguing about where to assemble the train – Trevor would want it on the table, but Emily would want to create a ramp from the table to the counter. It was the typical argument, and usually they both won in turn. 

Percy sat across from John, in Sherlock’s chair. It was where he always sat – it was where _everyone_ sat, because it was there, and comfortable, and well-placed for conversations with John. Sometimes, John forgot that it was even _Sherlock’s_ chair. But seeing the red-haired man sitting it in now, completely the opposite of Sherlock in every way, John remembered it. 

“Is he here?” 

Percy’s tone had changed, now that he wasn’t talking to the children. He sounded harsh and sharp, and he was digging in his shoulder bag. John thought he could hear something clinking inside. 

“Sherlock? No.” 

“Good,” said Percy crisply. 

John frowned. “Perce—” 

Percy pulled two bottles of beer out of the bag finally – that would have been the source of the clinking – and set them down on the table between them. 

“Okay,” said John slowly, and looked up at Percy. “Pretty sure I shouldn’t be drinking on the meds I’m taking. And pretty sure you shouldn’t be either.” 

Percy’s expression didn’t change, and John’s heart sank. He looked at Percy again, closely – there were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was paler, maybe even a bit yellowed, as if he’d been ill. His hands were steady, but the knuckles were dry and chapped from washing over and over. But it was the shirt that really gave it away – tucked neatly into jeans, showing off his slim waistline. 

“Shite,” said John finally. “I’m sorry, Percy.” 

Percy cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, and had to clear his throat again. “What I need to know is if I’m happy for you.” 

John closed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t know.” 

“Good enough,” said Percy, and popped one of the bottles open. 

“When?” asked John quietly. 

“Tuesday last.” 

Tuesday – the day after the accident. John rubbed his eyes and sighed again. “Christ, mate.” 

Percy took a swig of the beer. “I won’t drink the other in case you decide you want it.” 

Which was Percy’s way of saying he was done with the conversation. John knew him better than to push. 

“Meds,” said John. 

“And the worst that could happen?” 

John pretended to consider. “Well, I could fall down in a massive seizure, or my blood pressure could skyrocket, or I’d just get really, _really_ pissed.” 

“Fun,” said Percy. 

“A good time had by all,” said John dryly. 

“Looked at Polly’s blog lately?” 

“Do I even want to?” 

“She sat for _three hours_ in the rain trying to get Annie into that frou-frou nursery. The one on the other side of the park, remember she was waxing poetic about it for yonks.” 

“And did she?” 

Percy snorted, and John began to giggle. After a moment, Percy joined in. 

“How long was the post?” John managed to say through the laughter. 

“She had to break it in _two_.” 

John giggled harder, hard enough that he had to press on his side where the operation scar was, because it started to hurt. “Christ, Perce.” 

Perce’s laughter softened, and he took another drink. “She wanted to organize and get people to make you casseroles.” 

“Please tell me you stopped her.” 

“Of course not. Told her to bring ‘em to me, and now we’re eating like kings.” 

John snorted. “You are a bad, bad man.” 

“A well-fed bad man, yes.” Percy spun the bottle of beer on the table. “Are you going to let him come back?” 

“Are you and Gordon going to try again?” countered John. 

Percy stood up so quickly, John got dizzy. Percy walked over to the window and leaned his head against it, while John closed his eyes, cursing quietly to himself. He heard the knock of Percy’s head on the glass, once then twice, and opened his eyes to see Percy still standing by the window, looking out. 

“Three years ago, I would have wanted you to let him back,” said Percy to the window. “I would have wanted the happy ending, wanted the two of you to kiss and make up and live happily ever after. Hearing he was back, that it’d all been some clever trick to best his opponent – would’ve been like Christmas. Now…I don’t know.” 

“You didn’t know me three years ago,” said John. 

“That’s why I don’t know,” said Percy, turning from the window. “Now I want to hang him by his toenails and ask him what the bloody hell he was thinking, leaving the two of you—” 

“Percy,” said John gently. “He didn’t know about Emily. _I_ didn’t know about Emily.” 

“You were two months gone—” 

“I was _mourning_. It fucked up the hormones. You know what pregnancy can do to a bond – I thought the reason I couldn’t feel the bond was because he was dead, not because I was pregnant.” 

Percy exhaled hard, and dropped onto the sofa with a hollow laugh. “I lost the bond when I lost the baby.” 

John watched him, and waited. 

“Christ,” muttered Percy, and scratched at his hair. John was struck with the image of Sherlock doing the same thing, frustrated and angry and jittery, and he looked at Percy and saw the very same thing. “Gordon wants it back.” 

John frowned, and thought of Sherlock in the hospital, sitting by his bedside every minute, holding his hand. Neither of them had talked about it – John hadn’t even considered for a moment if Sherlock realized that he couldn’t feel the bond anymore. Maybe…maybe it really was broken, and not just a trick of his imagination. John wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “He can’t feel it, either?” 

“No, he feels it. He wants to help me get it back. Immediately. There’s ways to bring on a heat, you know.” 

“So do it,” said John. 

“I don’t _want_ it,” said Percy, and groaned and rubbed his hair again. 

The flat was quiet, except for the sounds of Emily and Trevor, still playing with the trains, though now they’d moved out of the kitchen. John thought he could hear the water running in the lavatory – tracks running over the sink, most likely. 

“I just,” said Percy, grasping. “I’m not leaving him. That’s not what I mean. I love him, he’s my alpha, my mate, he’s Trevor’s father. I just…this is the second one I’ve lost in two years. I just need some space. Gordon – he’s ready to go again and move on and I’m…not.” 

“You’re allowed to mourn.” 

“I know that,” snapped Percy. “Sorry, sorry. Just…your bond. It’s not…back?” 

John shifted in the chair, turning away from Percy. For a moment, he was struck dumb by the question – but more, he was shocked because for the first time since he’d woken in the hospital the week before, he realized that he hadn’t thought of the still non-existent bond once. 

“You don’t have to answer,” said Percy quickly. “It’s a personal question, I know—“ 

“The bond’s not back,” said John quietly. 

“Oh.” Percy lay out on the sofa, and stared up at the ceiling. “Well, I’m fucked then, aren’t I?” 

“Opposite, actually.” 

“Shut up.” 

“It still exists,” said John to the wall. “We just can’t tell.” 

“Pull the other one,” said Percy. 

“Sherlock doesn’t know I can’t feel the bond,” said John, and he looked over his shoulder to see Percy’s reaction. 

Percy continued staring at the ceiling. “Are you going to tell him?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Percy nodded, taking it in. “When’s your next heat?” 

“Suppressants.” 

“Question stands.” 

“One month, thereabouts, unless the drugs I’m taking now fuck with the hormones.” 

Percy stood and walked back over to Sherlock’s chair, swiping the beer bottle from the table as he sat down. “So. You’ve got time.” 

“All the time in the world,” said John bitterly. 

Percy nodded and took a drink. “Well,” he said, swallowing. “Let me know if you want me to punch him.” 

“Might do you some good, to punch _something_ ,” said John thoughtfully. 

“Yeah,” agreed Percy. “You want that beer or not?” 

John maneuvered himself on his chair until he was able to reach for the beer. He held it in his hands and examined the bottle; the feel of the paper against the glass, the swish of the liquid in side, the sharp sides of the cap. He ran his fingernail along the edge of the paper, shredding it. “You hate him, don’t you?” 

“He fucked you by leaving,” said Percy honestly. “I don’t care if he didn’t know about Emily. He let you think he was dead for three years, and if you hadn’t been hurt he’d _still_ be out there somewhere. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted to hear. But yeah. I hate him for the shite he put you through. You didn’t deserve that. But if you don’t want me to hate him – I’ll try not to, for your sake. Can’t say I’ll succeed, but I’ll try.” 

John nodded. Already half the paper label on the bottle was gone. He slammed the bottle back down on the table. “I’ll make you deal. You can keep on hating him, and I’ll hold onto the bottle. And when I drink it, you stop.” 

“How is that a deal?” 

“Because,” said John. “You need to hate something for a while. And I need to wait until I’m off the meds before I drink that beer.”


End file.
